


Stuck on You

by FhimeChan, Krey9J



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alien Technology, Alternate Universe - Space, Case Fic, Empath Will Graham, Grumpy Will Graham, Hallucination!Hannibal, Lots of Weird Aliens, M/M, Manipulations and Conversations, Murder Husbands Big Bang, Murders and Cannibalism, Spiralling into Obsession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-08 09:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16426748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/pseuds/FhimeChan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krey9J/pseuds/Krey9J
Summary: When the experimental robot Abigail kills and eats her creator, it makes the galaxy’s headlines. Nothing that concerns Will Graham, retired agent; at least until he starts to hallucinate the mind behind the crime.If Will wants to get Hannibal Lecter out of his head, he needs to catch him quickly, before his hallucination gets under his skin.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Signing up for the Big Bang was a huge challenge, since I'm used to write (slowly) short stories. It ended up being a fantastic experience; I received a lot of help and I had so much fun working with Krey! ☆  
> Two people were fundamental in writing this story. Thank you Azie for helping the plot come together and fixing the details, and thank you Nikolina for finding so many mistakes!   
> Plus, bless you Cinnamaldeide for listening to me whine.   
> Enjoy! :D  
>   
> ∼ Fhime 

Will yawns as he flips through the pages of his textbook. He digs his elbows in the soil, trying to find a more comfortable position on the soft grass. 

Beside him one of his classmate, sitting up straight with notebooks and pencils ready, glances at him. When their eyes meet, Will automatically blinks away the wave of disapproval coming from her. She winces as she feels Will’s boredom, but he turns away before she reigns the feeling in.

He should have taken his forensic textbook with him. That would be more useful than practicing again and again the empathy control techniques he mastered ages before.

The class is taught in a sunny clearing, as was usual during the perfect spring months on Ea. He learned that half of the galaxy want to live on their planet. Partially for the weather, mostly to meet the gentle, mind reading, beautiful people residing there. 

‘Such fools,’ Will thinks, looking at his teacher. Her skin is in shades of violet and pink, shining with small white sparkles under the light sky. She turns to her class and Will immediately fights against the wave of warm concern radiating from her. He looks down, at his own bluish-colored hands, trying to fly under the radar.

After a moment of silence, the teacher calls the disapproving classmate to the center of the clearing for a demonstration, and Will relaxes. He is attending the class only because it is mandatory for any Eans wanting to leave the planet. If only they could teach long term techniques, instead of momentaneous tricks, like the use of that bell. 

His classmate is holding the silver bell with tense fingers, curling and uncurling the rope handle around her pinky, listening to the teacher’s directions. The simple spheric cup fits her palm perfectly. 

Deep breaths, focus on the weight of the metal, let it drop and ring if the grip on reality loosens. It is a pretty simple physical centering through hearing and touch, and yet Will can see she is too tense. Oh well, what she learned is enough for her short trip outside of the planet. 

Will closes his eyes and lets the wind tangle and untangle his curls. Safe behind closed eyelids, he dreams of the moment when he will be away, where his thoughts will be his own. No more reproach when he is bored. No more fear and suspicion when he slips, and channels the serial killers he is studying. No more shocking everyone with his desire to join law enforcement, a distressing career for the naturally gentle Eans. 

“Is anything wrong, Will?” 

Affectionate worry envelopes Will when he opens his eyes and looks at the teacher, as required during lessons. As always, he tries not to be annoyed at the forced eye contact; it would only increase her distress.

He briefly debates on the answer to give, since dishonesty would be immediately sensed. He settles for, “I already know this technique.” 

“Why don’t you read aloud the chapter about DX001, then?”  

‘Because the contraindications frustrate me’, Will thinks. To prevent himself from showing his annoyance, Will recites, “DX001, the power suppression drug. Only to be taken during emergencies; mandatory to carry one vial, and only one, if outside of Ea.” He can not repress a wince as he lists the last rule. “If the maximum dosage - three vials - is exceeded, immediate return to Ea is required for a health assessment.” Will can not push himself to mention the ten years of mandatory permanence on Ea, a requirement to check that the patient is back in their right mind. Those rules, even if necessary, are the reasons why everyone outside of Ea associates the drug with craziness. 

The teacher nods, approval radiating from her. “Good. Have you already read the extra-Eans literature section?”

Will blinks, and tries really hard not to think of  _ that _ . He is saved by a girl across the clearing saying, “I don’t understand that cosmic connection thing.” Will tries to relax his body language while the attention is on someone else. His classmate continues, “What does it mean that we will feel our special person more keenly?”

The teacher hesitates. For a moment Will slips into her shoes, trying to explain an occurrence so rare she and many others have never experienced it. She repeats the textbook words, “You will feel them with more accuracy and intensity. They’ll understand you more than anyone else.”

Two people at Will’s right giggle. One of them says, “And then the government will build us a garden in our special person’s planet, so we could live there with our large loved family.” 

Will shudders. He has read the extra-Eans magazines. Silly stories where the hero meets a just-wanting-to-be-married Ean and ends up with a free giant house and a beautiful and caring life partner. His researches on Jack the Ripper were less offensive.

The teacher smiles. “Yes, and your family and you will be welcome in Ea whenever you want to come back.” 

Will slips, “And what if I don’t want to meet this special person and I don’t want to come back?” The class looks at him as if he is out of his mind. He grimaces.

The teacher radiates worry, “How can you not want such a complete bond? Building a family with someone who understands you so deeply?”

Will laughs, “With my luck, they’ll be a serial killer.”

For a handful of seconds the class is silent, a cloud of awkwardness looming over them all. The wind is still playing with his hair. Will closes his eyes, soaking in the sensation, imagining he is floating away in the gentle breeze. 


	2. Chapter 1

Will walks along the street towards the commercial district, pleased by the absence of people. Five years on Turo, the capital planet, and he is completely satisfied with his life.

Yes, working on crimes scenes gave him a mental breakdown and he went briefly back to Ea, but that was in the past. Currently, Will teaches at the police academy of Turo, the central and most prestigious of the galaxy.

When he abandoned his investigator career, he expected his conscience to surface, since he was favouring his mental well-being over the possibility of saving lives. But no, the perspective of illuminating young minds has quenched his moral qualms. The gossip about his breakdown has faded, his students have stopped looking at him as if he is… well, an Ean, and nobody flinches when Will explains a particularly gruesome murder to his students. He feels settled.

As Will walks under the main sun, counting the identical cylindrical houses at the two sides of the road, he muses that everything will be perfect as soon as he fixes his hologram transmitter.

A flicker of movement enters the corner of his vision when he approaches the door of the right building, but Will blocks the unwanted perception easily and opens the glass door of the shop.

In that exact moment, a crime scene appears, buzzling in the air over the terminal of the room.

The tridimensional image of the room is uncensored. Maybe, considering the shop is affiliated with the academy, the owner is tuned in to the private police channel, or maybe journalism has simply fallen that much.

Before Will steps into the store, he has already catalogued every detail of the small projection. Blood is splattered all around a room, which falls someplace in between Earth decor and a normal galactic science lab. The body is lying at the center, over a surgical table.

The voice-over filters through Will’s surprise, “...death is the cut in the throat, which was followed by multiple stabs to the abdomen and mutilations…”

Will absently walks towards the projection, getting through the lines of terminals on sales. It seems like that shop alone could satisfy the need for laptops of the whole of Turo. In the crime scene three limbs are scattered around the room and the intestine is exposed. Will knows that presentation, he has studied it extensively.

He feels dizzy. The world blurs for the space of few heartbeats, and when it comes back into focus there is a tingle on his neck, in a single point at the base of his spine.

“Looks bad, doesn’t it?” Will is abruptly taken back to the shop by the owner’s voice, half hidden behind a pile of spare parts. Will blinks, and relaxes his grip on the long sleeves of his turtleneck. The owner’s four eyes are rudely glued to the hologram, which works just fine for Will.

He collects himself, giving his back to the terminal, and says, “I need a replacement for my holotransmitter.”

Without stepping closer, he gives the model code and the protection class, ignoring the wave of disappointment coming from the owner at the refusal to discuss the crime.

The tingling has spread to the nape of his neck, Will realizes with alarm. He fights the sensation, as the owner requests his official badge and a signature. He clings to the material of the pen, focusing on its texture. The tingling recedes.

The owner hands him the receipt, glancing at Will for the first time. Two of his eyes widen and take on an alarming purple shade as he stares at Will’s blue skin and at the iridescent pink spots. “Hey, are you by chance…”

The voice-over changes intensity. The owner pauses, glancing between Will and the transmission, but the latter steals his attention again. “The killer is Doctor Razma’s experiment, an organic robot labelled as ‘Abigail’. We’d ask all the citizens to report to…”

The owner’s eyes fade to a worried white. Will turns to the projection, expecting a threat. He is faced by the image of a human girl with white skin and black long hair, wearing a frilly dark dress. “...extremely dangerous, don’t let her aspect fool…”

The tingling comes back and materializes in a tall figure with dark red skin and sharp limbs, standing with a bland smile in front of Will. A male Diajer.

Will compares the hallucination with the girl in the projection.

He says, “Shit.”

* * *

“What do you mean, we got the wrong killer? We have genetic matches all over the body!”

Clutching his phone, Will walks inside his house and slams the Earth-styled keys on the table close to the door. “You asked why I contacted the police department, and I answered. Are you gonna pass me onto the detectives, or not?” He hangs the formal jacket he wore outside, uncovering the soft turtleneck he favours. The form of the Diajer passes the threshold, frowning at the small dark place that Will calls home.

“With all due respect, Sir, you can’t just call the police and expect us to…”

 _...to do their job_ , Will thinks, and cuts off the receptionist. “I’m Doctor Will Graham.”

It is a gamble, because he has no way to know if they would remember him as their most brilliant agent or for the mental breakdown beyond his retirement.

The line is silent while Will climbs the stairs to the main circular room, then he hears the shuffling noises of a call transfer as he opens the curtain of the window. Good.

The room is spartan; the furniture is limited to a bed, two drawers, a desk with a chair and Will’s hologram transmitter. Still, the Diajer looks pleased at the panoramic view, and Will fights the impulse to snap the curtain back to annoy him.

“Will?” Jack’s voice has not changed in the last three years. At least he will not ask any questions on why Will is using a voice-only phone, and not a hologram.

“The girl didn’t do that, not alone at least. You should look for the Diajer who staged the kill.” The hallucination does not vanish, as Will hoped. Why does he not vanish? Will closes his fist, turning to the window to stare at the small planets wandering through the sky. He counts four of them before Jack answers.

“Why do you think so?”

Will is glad for the lack of small talk. “The body is cut following the MO of one of Earth’s most famous killers, Jack the Ripper. Unless the girl has extensive knowledge of Earth’s history, someone else guided her.”

“It’s a bit of a stretch.”

 _I’d usually agree_ , Will thinks, stubbornly avoiding to look at the hallucination. “That’s why you value my help.”

He can feel the surprise in Jack’s silence at the other end of the line. Present tense, implying an offer to keep helping the police. Out of their past friendship, Will offers, “I saw the news at the local store. I couldn’t stay out of it, not when I know you’re looking for the wrong person.”

“Thank you.” Jack takes his explanation at face value. He is probably too happy Will has spontaneously found his way back to profiling to question him more. “Would you take a look at the file?”

As the light dims into a serene evening, Will turns to face the hallucination, which is as clear here as in the shop. “Fine. I still need the paper copy.”

“I’ll have an agent bring it to you immediately.”

* * *

The next person who gets into his house is the technician with the task of fixing his holotransmitter. She is quick, efficient and not fond of pointless conversation, not even about Will’s home planet, which is relief for Will. He hides in the small kitchen downstairs while she installs the new equipment in his room, pretending to be busy cracking open some instantaneous food. The Diajer regards him with veiled disgust and Will tries his best to ignore him.

His powers have never laced so deeply into a mere hologram, even if Will’s imagination is unusually strong when it comes to crime scenes. He can only hope that helping the police to catch the Diajer will help his mind to behave.

The technician leaves just before Jack’s agent arrives. Sadly, he is not as competent.

He announces his arrival shouting at the closed door, instead of tapping on it. Will hears him only because he is still downstairs, and opens the door to white large eyes in the centre of a number of greenish tentacles. There is also a small bag somewhere, fixed to one of the wobbly limbs. A polypian, and judging from the uncertain gait he has only recently moved to dry land.

Remembering his puzzlement when he moved to Turo, Will can excuse the agent’s shouting. More annoying is how he looks wide eyed at Will. “Mr. Graham?”

Will does not bother to correct him about his title, and nods.

“Thank goodness! I was not sure I reached the right house, not with all this garden before the actual door… Haven’t you considered a home lift?”

The slight condescension in the sentence is probably not intentional, so Will lets it slide and extends his hand. The agent does not take the hint and keeps looking at Will while his smile gets more and more uncertain.

Will glances at the ten long meters separating the lift out of the fence from his door, and sighs. “I prefer it this way.”

The agent’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I understand! You prefer to use it when you spend time with your family!” Will winces. He braces himself for the inevitable question directed at each Ean. “How many relatives have you?”

Bloody galactic standard politeness. Will extends his hand more, almost waving it in front of the agent’s mouth. “The file, please?”

“Oh, sorry.” The agent manoeuvres his limbs to look inside the bag, extracting a clipboard slightly tattered at the corners. “Where is your mini-lift?”

The hallucination comes into Will’s field of vision with a mocking smile directed to the unfortunate agent. Will bites back a snarky answer. “I don’t have one.”

The agent’s jaw drops. “And how do you carry your things around the house?”

Will snatches the papers from the agent’s suction cups. “Telekinesis.”

The hallucination smirks as Will slams the door on the agent’s bewildered face. It is possible he actually believed him.

Will marches over to the stairs, wondering how the galaxy can survive when the people in his capital planet are completely unused to the concept of manually carrying a collection of papers upstairs. He catches himself clutching at the file, and relaxes his hold.

Since Diajers are hunters, used to stairs, the hallucination easily keeps up to Will’s fast pace. He reaches his room and prepares himself for the crime scene.

The first page of the file is a picture of Abigail. Will glances at it just to check if he has missed anything when he saw the hologram. He hasn’t.

She has her eyes closed and her head is sustained by a plush pillow; only the unnatural glint of her skin betrays her artificial nature. Probably the picture has been taken by her creator before the final activation. The feeling of adoration coming from the paper is palpable, and Will hastily turns the page.

A summary of Abigail’s functions covers the next page; reading quickly, Will is surprised to read that, under an assortment of sensors and hidden weapons, she has an Earthian metabolism. She will age. She is able to feel pain. Her brain is designed to experiment emotions.

A note is written in red ink at the bottom.

_‘Manufacturing defect: the robot has to ingest alien meat at least every 14 days to keep all the systems fully operating.’_

Will blinks, shivering and clutching at the papers. Some of the missing limbs of her creator must have been eaten.

He suppresses his answering emotion, glancing reflexively at the bedside drawer, where he keeps his training equipment. He has not used it since his breakdown, and he refuses to use the bell within the confines of his room and with the weight of the papers to anchor him to reality.

He can not help a bit of fidgeting at the soft cotton of his sleeves, but stops as soon as he sees the knowing smile on the face of the hallucination.

There are no more excuses, so Will takes a deep breath and looks at the pictures of the scene.

_I look at my creator and slit his middle part open with the claws he gave me. I don’t understand why he uses his sound waves to ask me to stop. He wanted me to be a hunter, to see me while I kill, when I’m at my most beautiful._

_I don’t stop. I know he wants this, he often told me he was anticipating the moment I could stand tall and take my first kill. While saying it, I remember he arranged his facial features to bare his teeth, the muscles tensing to force the two corners of the mouth up. I know it’s a sign of joy, so I try to mimic that expression, to show him I’m glad I finally realized my purpose._

_I don’t understand why the energy of the waves increase and the pauses decrease. I monitor his face as I hold him, not understanding why there is water on his face. The steady pressure he’s applying against me decreases as he twitches._

_I look at him as his walking system fails and he folds on the floor. He isn’t moving his diaphragm anymore. I don’t understand. I look at my other creator for reassurance._

_He tells me I did right, I honoured him as he wished. Now I have to finish my work. I’m proud of myself as I reach forward and free my claws to…_

Will snaps the file shut, interrupting the scene. There is a prickling at the side of his neck, where Abigail felt the Diajer's gaze. Will still experiences the pride of the Diajer, and he can not distinguish its origin. It may be a remnant of the satisfaction for the beautiful tableau Abigail painted, or his hallucination could be entertained by Will using his abilities.

It is not important though. Will puts the file on his desk, close to the switched off terminal he uses for work, and calls Jack.

He answers immediately. “Jack Crawford.”  
Will wonders if he has the luxury of a privileged line with the galaxy’s chief police officer. Maybe he even has a personalized ringtone. Three years before, he did. But three years before, he had come close to being _friends_ with Jack. “Graham. The Diajer did not work alone to create Abigail.”

“Who should we search for?” No pause this time. Will is glad for the trust Jack is still showing him, after years. It will help in covering his condition until the hallucination disappears.

“The Diajer in the file is a scientist. He’s an expert in biophysics and mechanics, but he doesn’t know about the intricacy of the human mind. We’re looking for a psychologist. Someone good enough to collaborate on this ambitious project, and close enough to convince Abigail to turn against her other creator.” _And to make her feel proud of it._

Will’s eyes are drawn to the hallucination, and he scrutinizes it for hints he may have overlooked. The Diajers is tall and lean, the muscles deceivingly small. He wears… Will is imagining him to wear elegant black clothes against reddish skin. They are Earthian styled, which may be the reason why the Diajer has extended only two of his six arms. He has high cheekbones, not attractive according to galactic glamour magazines, but oddly magnetic in his angular face. The dark red stripes of a tattoo cross his cheeks.

Nothing of it is of use, because Will’s hallucinations are based partially on his own memories, and in principle he can not tell which physical attributes are original. Even if he suspects this weirdly intense image is mostly correct. But why?

Jack interrupts his train of thoughts. “It’ll take some time, you know Diajers don’t like us to meddle in their affairs. Get some sleep.” He disconnects without waiting for a greeting.

His hallucination huffs in disapproval at the rudeness, and in retaliation Will makes a point in not showing any external sign of annoyance as he puts the phone on the bedside drawer. He closes the curtain to block the light, only to discover that the Diajer is luminescent in the dark.

He blinks, fighting off the disbelief. Is the killer really so annoying?

Will changes into his soft pijamas, the only concession to his origin planet, and closes his eyes. It takes a while, but the long walk to the shop tired him enough that he falls asleep.

* * *

_I look at them, the Ean who tries to hide his beauty and the girl who uses it as a weapon. I smile while our unworthy prey is dragged in front of him, the Ean righteous in his fury, the girl radiant in the acceptance of her nature._

_They offer it to me, a tribute to seal our first dinner as a family. The knife is cold in my hand, sharp. I stop for a moment, contemplating the perfect picture we are painting, when my hand is taken by him. Together, we push the blade into its pulsing heart, and Will…_

Will wakes up drenched in sweat as his doorbell rings. He swears and stumbles downstairs. He opens the door to the same agent of the previous afternoon, while his hallucination follows him at a leisurely pace.  

Blinded by the light of dawn, it takes a moment for Will to see that the polypian is blushing more and more evidently. He glances at his traditional pijiama, a single sleeveless tunic, and sighs. The skin of his arms and legs is a mixture of turquoise and fuchsia in the faint light, luminescent and ever changing. He knows he looks exactly as a pin-up of a cheap magazine. He can feel the Diajer’s amusement even without turning.

The agent mutters an apology, eyes stuck on the ground, his limbs curling protectively around his middle part and showcasing his shyness and uncertainty. Will has the distinct perception his hallucination wants him to put the agent in his place, and sighs again. Maybe to be more sociable he just needed to get crazy sooner.

Will squints at the badge the agent is wearing. “Good morning, agent Dott.”

Automatically, the agent answers, “Good morning, sir.” He does not take his eyes off Will’s feet.

“Thank you for bringing the files. I know it’s early.” The courtesy catches the agent’s attention. Will softens his tone. “I joined the police under Jack’s command too. It wasn’t easy at the beginning, staying away from home.”  
The hallucination snorts behind him. Will tries his best to ignore him as he plunges into politically correct stuff. “But Turo is a multicultural planet. We’re all here to serve justice. I’m sure you’ll find your place soon.”

Dott’s soft limbs drum on the file nervously, but the agent meets Will’s eyes resolutely. “Thank you, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Will nods and this time the agent offers him the file. Will takes it.

Dott is doing his best to look at him, and Will admits that he is doing exceptionally well, considering that only three Eans in the galaxy live outside of his planet, and there are not many chances the agent has met one of them. In addition, the gossip at headquarters has probably caught up during the night and the agent now knows about his mental breakdown. Yes, he is doing exceptionally well, Will has to begrudgingly admit. He says, “Thank you.”

He closes his door and leans against it. The hallucination seems on the verge of laughing. Will glares at him and opens the dossier. The Diajer comes closer, and Will realizes that his attention is caught by a photo on the third page. As he looks at it, his hallucination becomes more and more definite, until he is indistinguishable from the picture. Surprising, the tattoo remains unchanged, even if his cheekbones are more pronounced.

He looks into the Diajer’s eyes, now lined with red, and reads the name written under the photo, “Hannibal Lecter.”

He obtains an approving smile for his effort.

* * *

The resulting call with Jack is straightforward. He gives Jack Lecter’s name, and in half an hour he knows that Hannibal frequentated the same social circle of the victim and that he went missing the previous day. His house is indistinguishable from an eighteenth century Earth manor. The clues are so overwhelming it is unnecessary to add anything.

“They will leave the planet as soon as they can. Lecter,” Will tries hard not to let the first name slips from his lips, “wants to show off what he considers his creation to the world. They may have already left.”

Jack says, “Diaji has its own independent border station. They won’t let us control it, but the most probable route is the main external one. It’s so busy it’s impossible to control it.” A pause.“I’ll let you know.”

It remains unspoken that Abigail needs to feed before twelve days pass.

* * *

In the evening Will feels too restless to sleep and decides to take his usual stroll to the park. Hannibal follows him with an elusive smile as Will walks the ten (long) meters to the outside world.

He ignores Hannibal and heads to the park, letting his gaze wander to the blue sky, over the identical houses at the two sides of the road, and to the lifts placed at regular distance. He likes Turo’s grid-like street system, mostly because it is so different from Ea.

Hannibal looks bored. Will snorts before thinking about it, then checks around if anyone witnessed his slip. As usual, nobody’s around. Will loves walking, because on Turo everyone takes the lifts and he has the street for himself.

He says aloud, “You’d hate residential quarters, wouldn’t you?” and considers if this information could be somehow useful to Jack. Probably not.

The park is equally deserted. Turo residents go to its satellites for fun, except for some old agents who prefer the quiet and are now probably sleeping. Nothing moves but Will, Hannibal and the impressions of the last visitors which linger at the corner of Will’s vision. It is easy to ignore them, though, like red leaves falling from a distant tree.

Will frowns at Hannibal, who is now walking in front of him. Why is he so defined?

Usually Will just sees shadows and feels some residual emotions, and only if he physically stands in the crime scene. Hannibal stays there, bold and unfading, conjured by holograms and pictures.

A sudden blow of winds interrupts his thoughts. Between Ea and Turo, the wind is the same. Will closes his eyes, enjoying the caress. For a moment, everything is alright.

Then Will faces the world again, and Hannibal is looking straight at him with a knowing smile, as if he is filing Will’s moment of weakness away for future exploiting. A sudden vision of Hannibal playing with his hair hits him, and for one moment Will thinks it comes from himself, before realising it is from the hallucination.

Will turns decisively around, breaking eye contact and stopping the wave of emotion. He tells himself that he is shivering because of the wind, and almost believes it.


	3. Chapter 2

Jack phones him again five days later. “Will.”

“Crawford.”

Will has a flaming headache and his mouth tastes like vomit. He has not given up on teaching yet, because he does it from home using his holotransmitter. But he has not left the house since Hannibal caught him off center at the park, staying awake hours to study the file again and again. The reclusion and the lack of sleep are taking a toll on him.

He squints in the black room, then goes to open the curtain. Jack can not see him, but he feels better armored in the bright light. Even if his eyes throb in pain. 

“Will… I need you to look at the scene again, using a hologram.”

Will’s legs straighten from the tension, but his voice is firm when he answers. “I looked at the pictures, and told you everything I could.”

The pictures are lying on his desk. Will has stared at them for so long that the shapes and the weight of them are printed into his memory, visually and physically. 

“We’re keeping an eye on the external route, but they may be anywhere by now.” Will blocks the annoyance filtering from Jack’s tone of voice with the usual ease. At least his ability to keep his mind to himself is intact with anybody but Hannibal.

“And my presence in the crime scene wouldn’t divine their position out of thin air. I did what I could, Jack.” He allows himself to use his first name, a reminder that once Jack did not even question his judgment. Jack pauses, but does not dare to correct his lack of formality. Not when Will could just disappear for another two years. 

“We don’t have any concrete leads,” Jack says, but there is resignation in his tone. He closes the phone call when Will doesn’t answer.

Will sighs, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes. A hologram would actually help in the investigation, but Will fears it would strengthen Hannibal even more.

He glances again to his bedside table, where he keeps the DX001 and his bell. He used two doses during his former breakdown, getting dangerously close to confination on Ea. He treasures the memory of the two days of blissful absence of external emotions. 

Will breathes deeply, hugging himself and caressing the fabric of his tunic. He needs to get rid of the hallucination quickly, before he is forced to take the drug again. 

Hannibal is calmly standing in the middle of the room. The more Will gets used to his presence, the more difficult it is to remember he is not real. Will closes the curtains, and the figure stays lit and clear in the dark room, out of place like a badly manipulated picture.

Once more, Will scrutinizes him, searching for clues he overlooked. Sensing Will’s gaze, Hannibal turns and stares back with curiosity. 

Fair enough. 

Hannibal inclines his head, and Will wonders if it is part of the body language of the actual Diajer, or if it is Will’s imagination filling the blanks with his own memories. Maybe the gesture comes from one of his professors; right now, he cannot remember.

Will concentrates, trying to gain more information from the red irises. A wave of joy flows through him, followed by intrigue, and Will smiles before regaining control of himself. Then he grimaces, pushing the foreign sensation away. Since he discovered Hannibal’s name, Will has had more and more difficulty in keeping detached from the emotions of his hallucination. They are as strong as the ones of a physically present person, and much more piercing. 

He circles around Hannibal, wondering again why he has latched onto him so strongly. He forces his breath to be regular as he was trained to, and wishes for Hannibal not to attempt eye contact a second time. 

Hannibal almost complies, looking at him from the corner of his eyes but not turning. Will stops, careful not to push his mind too much. He absently mumbles, “What is it that you’re looking for?”

He jumps out of his skin when Hannibal answers, “Family.”

Will’s hands move on their own accord, searching his pockets for his training bell, even if he has not carried it for years. He purposefully uses Hannibal’s serenity to calm himself, as he says, “You have an interesting way of doing it, murdering people and turning a daughter against her father.”

Hannibal does not deign him with an answer, raising an eyebrow.

Will hates that he understands the wordless objection. Abigail was not a daughter, but a doll.

Will would like to argue that making her into a murderer does not equal to giving her dignity as a person, that her creator was much better suited to take care of a child, that manipulation is not a great start for a family, but catches himself. If his mind was going to play tricks, he could at least make the best of it. 

He resolutely releases his grip on the fabric and asks, “Where are you two?”

Hannibal’s mouth curls in distaste, as if offended by the invasive question. Will is tempted to punch him. He thinks, trying to figure out what question Hannibal would answer. 

“Why did you choose Jack the Ripper as your inspiration?”

Hannibal’s mouth distends in pride. “Because there is only one person in the whole galaxy who studied his murders, outside of Earth.”

A cold block surrounds Will’s lungs, stealing his breath away. That was why he has developed a connection so strong after a single glance at the hologram of the scene. He lets himself fall on the bed, wincing in pain as his legs invade the air occupied by Hannibal. 

The discomfort is a bad sign, because it means that his brain is rejecting the reminder that Hannibal is unreal. 

He forces himself to focus. What is Hannibal looking for? Will takes his head between his hands, curling on the sheets, breathing his own smell on them for comfort. 

He is taken aback as Hannibal talks again, “Oh, by the way, we’re headed to Orion.”

* * *

“Jack, they’re going to Orion, if they aren’t there already.”

Silence at the other end of the line, until Jack offers, “It’s close enough to Diaji not to be a stressful first travel for Abigail.”

Again, no questioning his information. Small mercies. Will can keep his cool much better if he has not to say, ‘Well, you know, I’m hallucinating Dr Lecter, so I asked and he told me’. 

The hitch in his breath at the thought is covered by Jack asking, “Are you sure?”

“No, but we don’t have anything better. Hannibal seemed to enjoy arts, so it’s the right planet for him.”

“Fine. I’ll contact the local ambassador and ask for a block on the planet.”

The normal procedure. Will hangs the phone and turns to his room. The main sun has set, so even without the curtain the light is dim, and Hannibal stands out like a 1000 watts Earthian lamp. Good. 

Will asks, “What are you doing next?” but Hannibal simply regards him in silence, as he has done for the last two hours. Maybe he has imagined the previous answers. 

Well of course he has, that is the whole problem. But even on crime scenes, where his powers are at their strongest, Will has never spoken with a hallucination. 

Even considering that Hannibal deliberately chose Jack the Ripper to catch his attention, their connection is unusually strong. He is not supposed to understand Hannibal so well. 

Will straightens and pushes his worries aside. He has to do what he has to do. He knows better than to get lost in his mind again. 

He takes in the rest of the room, mumbling under his breath, “I’m Will Graham, it’s 10 pm and I’m in my home in Turo, Central Department of the Galaxy.”

Hannibal stares at him, and Will feels centered. He fights the sensation anyway, reclaims his inner turmoil and stares at Hannibal, daring him to influence him again. He does not, but when Will goes to bed the light from his figure seeps through every type of blindfold, pillow or duvet. Will’s annoyance grows way beyond any reasonable measure.

After hours of tossing and turning, Will marches downstairs into his barren kitchen, muttering curses, and swallows an instant sleep pill. 

* * *

_ I push the knife into the red beating heart, smiling at Hannibal and Abigail. My family.  _

_ Abigail beames at me, a joyous anticipation of her dinner. She smiles more and more as the days pass and I explain to her the different emotions we can experience. We often talk on the beach, staring at the sea, while I braid her hair. She likes it.  _

_ Hannibal regards her indungently. Finally, I can understand him and he can understand me; our thoughts are in a simbiosis so perfect I don’t need to hide any part of myself.  _

_ I offer them the heart, a token of the love that binds our family together, that makes us stronger than we ever were alone.  _

Will wakes up disoriented and alone, and in the silence of the night he fights the tears. 

* * *

Two days later, they find an abandoned ship floating in the biggest of Orion’s seas, the internal log cleared. Will finds Jack’s message while he is preparing to teach his class, and stares at the screen. The conversations with Hannibal were real, or at least as real as they could be.

Hannibal, not one bit out of place in the morning light, smirks at him. Will glares, then activates his holotransmitter. The data of the transmission runs under his feet as his class appears around him. Even if he is used to it, being unable to touch what he sees during a transmission gives Will a moment of disorientation.

He greets his students with a nod and starts his lesson. He ignores how an immaterial Hannibal is moving around his immaterial class. He rationally knows what is real and what is not, and it must be enough. 

* * *

No news for other two days, and only three days are left until Abigail needs to feed again. To keep his mind away from the fruitless investigation, Will is grading a pile of essays, for once without guilt. 

Hannibal has other plans, though. “I’m curious to see what she’ll do.”

Will does not answer, but Hannibal can read into his mind, probably because he is right inside it. “I knew it.”

Will ignores him, but his concentration is broken. His thoughts go to the list of objects found in Hannibal’s house. There was a ridiculous amount of pans and of books. In exposition on his study there were some charcoal sketches drawn by Hannibal himself. 

Will was startled to see represented his own Ean school and a handful of close-ups of Eans. Even if those were popular themes in the galaxy, Will was struck by Hannibal’s interpretation. There was one old woman stretching under the sun, every unflattering wrinkle caressed by the charcoal, extending her hand to the viewer. She was tired, she was desperately longing for company. 

Will had hurriedly turned the page. 

Considering the amount of antiques and art scattered in Hannibal’s house, Will has told Jack to monitor the high class gatherings, especially the ones open to multiple races where Hannibal’s accent would not stand out so much. They have no way to hide Abigail’s porcelain face, though. 

Will forces his mind back on the papers to grade, and not on how Hannibal’s artistic side would play out in his future crimes. He repeats the list of Hannibal’s possessions aloud, a centering technique he learnt in Ea during his training.

He buries the sense of anticipation for what will be an aesthetically beautiful and intellectually interesting crime. 

Hannibal knows his thoughts anyway, but Will can do without the wave of pride he would get by looking at him. 

* * *

One day is left before Abigail needs to kill, and no leads. The situation is desperate enough that Will decides to reconstruct her crime. The texture of the pictures in his hands is too familiar to anchor him to reality, and probably he will not discover anything relevant, but he must try. 

The lab walls grow around him, bright and detailed in his imagination, even if Will’s room is dark. In the center, the body of Abigail’s creator is arranged in the classic Jack the Ripper tableau. Abigail or Hannibal removed four of the doctor’s limbs, so that only two arms are left, as if he were an Earthian. There is no recognizable pattern, and the blood is glued to the wall in large red chunks and uneven clouds of spray. Abigail’s doing.

On the solid floor, which is overlapped to Will’s real room, there are maroon steps. They lead to a small kitchen, where the handle of a pan is covered in coagulated blood, and the inside is carbon black and dirty. There is a cup with a bunny printed on it, probably destined for Abigail; Will shuts the thought out.

Hannibal follows him in the small room, a frown on his face. Will understands it is too messy for his standards, but he and Abigail had to flee quickly after the kill to run to… fuck-me-if-I-know-where.

Annoyed, Will slips, and looks into Hannibal’s eyes. A wave of pride for his adoptive child relieves Will’s tension. He catches himself before he smiles, and regains his control. His concern for Abigail has nothing to do with Hannibal’s, yet it is difficult to keep the two feelings separate. 

The scenery changes when Will turns the pages of the file; Hannibal’s pristine kitchen appears in front of him. No new clues in the white floor, high cupboards and immaculate knifes, apart from the sense of satisfaction emanating from the whole ensemble. 

It is Hannibal’s stage, designed to be domestic and functional, completely different from Will’s impersonal room. Yet there is a lingering familiar feeling as Hannibal steps towards the counter, his hand caressing his knives, picking one up to examine it. The room overlaps with Will’s own empty kitchen. 

He blurts out, “You felt alone.” There is a sudden urge to reach out, to comfort.

Hannibal looks at him, almost startled, then his expression closes off and he puts his hands behind his back. “You may benefit from more sun. Your color is fading.”

The deflection annoys Will. “And whose fault is that?” He snaps before remembering his training; he should not talk to the products of his mind. But his hands are still prickling for the impulse to touch.

He bites his lips, sighs and lets go of the pictures. For a moment he thinks he would not come back, but then Hannibal’s pans tremble and fade. Hannibal remains, as usual. “You should really open that curtain.”

Will ignores him and paces the room. He pointedly passes through his hallucination, and his mouth twitches at Hannibal’s dismayed expression. It is totally worth the wave of nausea which comes with the action. 

* * *

Will knows the inevitable new murder has happened when his phone rings; he is running out of time. Jack will want him to reconstruct the crime scene, but Will is reluctant to let Hannibal gain even more space in his mind. Still, he has also run out of excuses. He decides to anticipate Jack and bargain. 

“Will…”

“Can you connect the police holographic transmitter of headquarters to the one in my house?”

Jack pauses. Will can almost hear him thinking. He is not pleased, not with all the hassle coming with the setting up of a transmission. On the other hand, Will’s spontaneous offer is likely much more than he expected to get, and he is in a hurry. 

“It’ll be working in two hours. I’ll send an agent with the file.”

The phone call ends as abruptly as it began. Will briefly closes his eyes in relief. At least he avoided going to headquarters with his hallucination tagging along.

Fifteen minutes later, agent Dott is at his door. Will greets him politely and takes the file. The agent does not ask other invasive questions and keeps his eyes his normal size. 

As a goodbye, Will says “May the stars shine over your path and the prints lead you to your prey’s den.”

While he walks upstairs Will realizes that he has used the traditional farewell of Diaji, and freezes. Hannibal looks at him with polite concern, all gentlemanly and manners-ish. Still hiding his four additional limbs inside his Earthian suit. “You would do much better if you just relaxed with yourself, Will.”

Will ignores him, marches upstairs, and opens the files on his desk. 

He needs light to read them. He purposefully turns his back on Hannibal, who is still unnaturally glowing in the dark, before switching a lamp on. 

Even without looking, he bets there are wrinkles of amusement around Hannibal’s eyes. Will considers using the bed instead of the table, just to march across Hannibal, but concludes that he is becoming way too invested in pissing off what is essentially a hallucination. Instead he caresses the papers, crumpling the edges between his fingers to concentrate on the filigrane.  

No pictures, fortunately. Not yet.

He scans the pages, at first skipping over the name of the victim, then deliberately going back to read it. He cares about the victim. He is not who Hannibal thinks he is. He  _ cares _ .

The victim is called ‘Michelangelo Caravaggio’ and Will can not stifle a huff of laughter.

“Too ostentatious, isn’t it?,” says Hannibal, and Will nods before catching himself. 

He wants to close this case, Hannibal is becoming too strong and soon he would need medications, medications would mean a medical commission and a medical commission would mean a step further towards confinement on Ea. 

Before the unpleasant thoughts get the best of him, Will reads the bare facts that the file provides. 

The lock on the door, Earthian-styled as the rest of the house, shows no damages. Abigail would have ripped it off. Will glances at Hannibal’s hands. Lean, steady. Perfectly able to pick a lock. 

He grimaces, and sends a message to Jack, adding ‘can force Earthian locks’ to Hannibal’s profile. They are much more skilled than the police anticipated. Considering the current Earth fashion, they could as well have the keys to any house on Orion. Or on Turo. Or on every other important planet. 

Will’s annoyance overcomes his common sense. 

“If you had just adopted a cat, or trained mice for social experiments, we wouldn’t be at this point,” Will snaps. Hannibal’s mouth corners twitch, a sign of amusement as expressive as he can get. Will’s anger grows. “You’ve taken a girl from her home, probably helping in making her a monster, and now you’re teaching her that killing is good and freaking artistic.” He clenched his fists. “And because of you I’m here, sleep deprived and on the edge of another breakdown, and more people are  _ dying _ and I couldn’t and can’t prevent it.” 

Hannibal is perfectly composed. “And why would you care?”

Will gasps in rage, pacing around the room, “Because, because, because it’s what people, sane, normal, decent people, do!”

“And it irks you that you don’t.”

Will almost yells, “I care about Abigail.”

The sound of his voice helps him realize what he is doing and he sits on the edge of the bed, breathing deeply. Hannibal answers, “I care about her too. That’s why I took her with me.”

Will waves his hands, incapable of rebutting it. The worst part is that he  _ understands  _ what Hannibal is saying; Abigail would have been a doll, stuck in Diaji, always hidden. Hannibal has taken her around the world, showing her what she is able to do, what they can accomplish together. He rubs his face, trying to divert his thoughts. “And so what’s your plan, now?”

“Starting to train mice, of course.”

WIll looks up and breaks into a startled laugh. “I hope I’m not one.”

The atmosphere in the room changes as Hannibal looks at him, with something akin to… longing? Admiration? Will is overwhelmed and unable to recognize it. 

Hannibal says, “You’re not a mouse, Will. You’re a magnificent creature. If only you could stop repressing half of yourself.”

Will sweats cold under Hannibal’s gaze, and allows himself to get a glimpse of Hannibal’s point of view. He sees a creature with the potential to be whatever he wanted to, the power to be dangerous and kind; but he is hiding in an empty house, denying himself the company he longs for and suppressing every natural twitch of violence. He needs guidance... family. 

Will blinks, and comes back to himself. “I forgot you were a psychiatrist. Do you psychoanalyze every agent who chases you?”

“I’m not psychoanalyzing you. They retired my license ten days ago. It’d be unethical.”

Will faces twitches and he breaks into a laugh.

* * *

Laughing does not solve any problems, but it surely feels as if it does. Will is way more relaxed than he should as he opens his bedside table to take his training bell. It is deceivingly heavy, metal and the soft rope still familiar in his hands after years. He stubbornly avoids to look at the vial of DX001 beside it. 

Will feels more centered as he wraps the rope around his wrist, letting the small silver bell hang loose. Hannibal smile slightly, encouraging. 

Will raises an eyebrow. 

Hannibal says, “I told you I want you to relax with yourself. If you need an object to do so, I’m happy you took it.”

Will’s other eyebrow reaches the first, “Even if it’s a sign I’m going crazy?”

“I’m confident you aren’t.”

Will wonders what it means that a product of his mind is reassuring him that he is not going crazy, but leaves it because it is time to step into his holographic transmitter. 

Before he activates it, he says to Hannibal, “Behave.” Hannibal nods courteously. 

A moment later, Will’s hologram appears in headquarters. The white room under the big dome is bustling with people, physical and holographic, but Jack is an unmoving point on his central platform. 

Will nods at him, keeping his right hand in his pocket, closed around the bell. He hopes he will not need it, but Hannibal is still staring at his nape and he has no intention of getting lost in the transmission. 

After three years, the only noticeable change in Jack is that his black fur receded a bit behind his ears. In the official uniform, working simultaneously at multiple terminals, he emanates as much determination as usual.

The officers immediately connect Will with the main holographic transmitter and send him to Orion. The transition from physical reality to the crime scene projection is so sharp that Will nearly gets lost; then his training kicks in and he digs the fingers of his left hand into his forearm. Physical centering is not ideal, but it would have to do. 

He clutches at his tendons when the murderers’ thoughts assault his mind. He pokes at them from his mental fort, then after a deep breath he dives in. 

_ White walls, a cubic Earthian-styled room. Six meters in length, 5.2 in width, 3 in height. The Orioner sleeps on a couch on the right side, his stolen canvas lies in the corner between him and myself. Eyeballs covered by a layer of skin, frequency of 12 breaths in a minute, lax muscles. Asleep. _

_ I walk to him, crouch to the side of the couch, put a hand through his hair. He uncovers his eyeball and pushes against my grip, emitting sound waves. I am not equipped to understand them. _

_ Hannibal steps beside me, his presence reassuring me I’m doing everything as I should. I slams my fist in the center of the Orioner’s chest, 15 centimeters from his left shoulder, then I look at Hannibal, curling my mouth to show how I appreciate his looking after me.... _

_...white nocturnal lights becomes Abigail’s porcelain face. She is magnificent, dangerous nails complemented by the soft ruffles of her dress, while she digs her nimble fingers into the fraud painter’s neck. Her diamond nails just scratch his throat. He can not get free, not without cutting his skin. _

_ I allow myself a smile when Abigail looks up at me, searching for my approval. Despite her fierceness, she is a child in the world; she needs my help to survive, and how can I deny such a unique creature? _

_ I nod, and Abigail stands up, dragging the moaning pig by its hair. I usually would prod at the pig, in the same way that a farmer takes his poultry in a gloved hand, appeasing the weight. People say the most interesting things while they feel the end of their life approaching. But we do not have enough time for that, not with the police knowing we are in Orion. I would not have expected anything less from Will… _

The shock carries Will back to himself, if only for a moment. His digs his nails - his not-made-of-diamond nails - into his skin, knowing the next wave is coming, and he is far too lost to swim away. 

_...but for once a quicker death may be more suited. The painter is an artist in everything but in his job; he steals his wife’s designs when it suits him, then abandons her for months at a time to get drunk. He fucks and swears in his social circles. Tasteless. I doubt he would provide entertainment.  _

_ Abigail looks at me again when she has dragged the pig in front of his canvas. I nod, and she severs the jugular with her nails. She calculates the cut and the spray trajectory so that the blood spurts high, falling down in single smaller droplets. Each crimson sphere is suspended in the white light before dripping on the canvas and spreading on the surfaces. Abigail turns the man so that the blood paints, drips, soaks the canvas, while she and I stay clean. The contrast is deeply amusing.  _

_ The blood does not spray anymore, but leaks with no power from the cut. The painter can not keep his head straight; Abigail drops the body in the pool of his blood, and looks at me, inquisitive. She says, “Is Will going to find us soon?” _

_ My smile widens, “He certainly will.”  _ Ding.

_ I take one of the brushes and crouch to dip it into the red liquid still flowing from the pig’s neck.  _ Ding. _ I step aside and sign the soaked canvas with my -  _ ding _ \- impeccable handwriting; I smile -  _ ding _ \- to myself - _ ding  _ \- thinking about -  _ ding ding _ \- all the things -  _ ding _ \- I can do with… _

Will is covered in cold sweat and frantically ringing his bell when he comes back to what is now just a simple projection. Shaking, he checks the data flowing under his feet. Half an hour has passed. More to the point, no external officer has joined his transmission, which means he can pocket the bell and pretends he never got lost. 

He was supposed to channel Abigail. Not Hannibal. 

He walks across the scene, careful not to let his imagination wander. He will deal with the implications of Hannibal’s thoughts while safe in his house, an heavy object in his hands to anchor him to reality. But he has to check one last thing before going back. 

The pool of blood is still near to the canvas, but the body has been removed. Will carefully steps around the dried liquid, digs his nails into his palms and looks at the canvas. 

It is a reproduction of an Earthian Holy Family, with a mother holding a baby in her arms and being held in turn by her husband.

One single word is written across. 

'See?'

Beside him, Hannibal smirks at him. Will has the weird urge of finding comfort in his arms, as the Madonna. He cradles the bell instead, until the sensation recedes enough he can head back to headquarters. 

* * *

“They’re coming here, Jack.”

The temperature in the room goes down many degrees. After the first shock, the officers nudge and whisper oh-so-subtly. Jack stares at him, a fixity in his features which speaks volumes of his mental processes. He is probably rearranging the defensive scheme of the whole planet.

“Are you sure?”

Will clutches his bell, still in his pocket and unreachable to Jack through the transmission. “I wouldn’t alarm you and the whole of headquarters if I wasn’t.”

Jack gives him a level look. “Why?”

‘Hannibal has adopted the freaky robot and he’s looking for another parent, which would be me’ is on the tip of his tongue, but that would be fishing for trouble and he wants to go home. Hannibal smiles at him from the corner of Jack’s office, indistinguishable from the officers in the strong artificial lights. “Hannibal’s got a God Complex the size of Orion. Slipping under our nose would appease it. He’d waited ‘till the last day to feed Abigail,” Will is proud of how his voice sounds calm, “so we wouldn’t expect them here soon. Theatres, galleries, opera houses… We’ve got the widest selection in the galaxy. He wants to teach Abigail to enjoy them.”

One officer to the left has become paler and paler. Hannibal steps beside him, radiating displeasure. Probably wanting Will to reveal he is the target. Desired one. Seeked object. Whatever. Will is determined to keep his house police-free.

Jack is still staring at him. “Ok. I’ll put a cordon around the planet. A robot looking like an Earthian can hardly pass unobserved here, on Turo.” He turns to the other policemen. “If one of you says a word to the press, you’re fired. That’s classified information.”

Will reaches for the panel under his feet and closes the transmission. Headquarters disappear, together with Jack’s line of orders. 

In the silence Will hears his barely controlled breathing. He slouches on his bed, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes. He tells himself that Turo’s security is much better than Orion’s; that as the base for the galactic government they are used to defensive measures. He is still unnerved.

Will wants to sleep before facing his problems, but Hannibal has different ideas. 

“You liked my gift.”

The voice is a touch deeper, the accent more pronounced. Will does not bother to move, or to look at Hannibal. The figure is more focused on the edges. Will is positive he is now hallucinating Hannibal’s real way of moving, purposeful yet graceful. 

Christ. Crime scenes usually do not provide that degree of accuracy. 

“If that’s a gift, I’m mentally stable.” He waves a finger in Hannibal’s general direction.

“The two things may come together.”

Will grimaces. Then, because he can not leave things alone, he asks, “Why me?”

He knows the answer, of course, but he still trembles when he hears it in Hannibal’s low voice. “Our intelligence works at two levels; logic can only reach so far. I want Abigail to learn emotions from the best.” 

“Bullshit. I’m the least qualified person to teach emotions.” He sits down. “Your ego simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to study the mind of the only Ean interested in serial killers.”

Hannibal smiles, as if Will’s rudeness is charming, instead of deserving of immediate death. “I admit the possibility of complete understanding is an appealing one. And of course your inner darkness makes you the ideal candidate to understand me… or Abigail.”

“An elegant way of saying you’ll use my empathy to satisfy your narcissism, then you’ll brainwash me until I’ll kill someone for Abigail.”

The corners of Hannibal’s mouth turn down. “Will. You know I don’t need to brainwash you. Even ignoring your penchant for manipulations…”

Will’s whole face twitches. Hannibal studies his expression, then says, “You’re accustomed to lying to people for your own advantage. You lied to Agent Dott and you’re lying to Jack. You tell them exactly what they want to hear so they’ll leave you alone. Would you deny it?”

Will’s fingers automatically close over the hem of his jacket. Rage bubbles from within. He wants to argue that those small lies are nothing compared to murders, how does Hannibal dare to accuse him?

What exits from his mouth is, “I didn’t lie to  _ you _ .”

Hannibal slowly smiles, and steps towards Will, entering his personal space. Instead of feeling threatened, Will is oddly comforted. The skin of his hands prickles once more, itching to reach out. To be engulfed in affection like the Madonna.

Hannibal says, “No, you didn’t lie to me, because you know I understand you.” Will opens his mouth to argue, but Hannibal cuts him off. “Think about it, dear Will. Imagine a life where you don’t need to hide a part of yourself from every person you meet. No more constantly keeping yourself in check. No more feeling alone, scared of yourself. It would be so simple.”

Will laughs bitterly. “Yes, sure. I’ll just wait to be found by you and Abigail, then we’ll leave for some exotic paradise and play family. Everything will be alright. Oh, except for the part where we kill every fortnight. Nothing to worry about.”

Hannibal looks unfazed. “But you don’t care about our victims. Tell me, do you even remember their names?”

Will wants to punch the smug smile out of Hannibal’s face. Instead, he says, “Of course. Michelangelo Caravaggio. And…”

... _ and her creator. What was he called? _

Will frantically tries to remember, but Hannibal does not let him. “You forgot. Or to be more accurate, you never learnt the name. You don’t care.” 

Instead of answering, Will counts aloud, focusing on the numbers, cutting off Hannibal.

It does not work because he feels every bit of Hannibal’s pride as he says, “You  _ see _ my art.” He looks at Will expectantly, but when no answer comes he continues. “You like the tableau.”

Will did. He does. And he currently wants to be comforted in Hannibal’s arms. 

Will goes to his bed and opens his drawer. The small vial of DX001 is there. He opens the cap, and drinks it. 

The effect is immediate; Hannibal frowns and fades, the pressure on Will’s temples eases. He still hears, “I know you found the blood beautiful, as I did,” then he is shaken but blissfully alone. 

He knows his abilities with all their contraindications - namely, a chatty killer in his bedroom - will come back in 24 hours, but he is determined to make the most of his hallucination-free time. Without Hannibal there, it is easy to see where to draw the line, no matter how touch starved and lonely he feels. He is not a killer.

He has at least some hours before Hannibal and Abigail could reach his house, and he is determined to catch them before that happens. Then he could worry about finding an excuse with the medical committee to get another vial.

He opens the window, bathing the room in light. He breathes easily for the first time since this whole mess started. He ignores how empty the room seems. 

Feeling light, and without the constant wariness of seeing too much, he picks up the phone and calls Jack. He will have to cancel his lessons. 


	4. Chapter 3

If Jack is surprised by Will’s request to see Hannibal’s house in person, he does not show it. He does not say that Will excused himself only few minutes before, or complain about the hassle of another holographic transmission. He just waves a hand in the direction of Will’s projection and tells the first officer who passes to arrange it for Will. He supposes that the security of the planet is quickly increasing, judging from the frenzy at the headquarters. 

In record time, Will is connected to Diaji and Hannibal’s study appears around him. The transition does not affect him. The impressions of the place reach his mind, but do not touch him emotionally. It is such a respite.

The room is huge and Earth-styled, like the scene of the previous crime, but with one fundamental difference. While the painter’s atelier screamed of an inflated ego and ostentation, this room speaks of a more genuine love for terrestrial decor. Hannibal has adopted heavy velvet curtains, wide windows and wooden floors, probably covered with some kind of transparent protection. In a corner a ladder leads up to a balcony. 

It is peaceful. There are ancient books everywhere and two comfortable armchairs. The operative nature of the room, which Hannibal used to talk with his patients, is betrayed by a heavy clock on the desk and by a closet filled with notes. Will knows from the file that the wooden door in the corner leads to the part of the house Hannibal uses - used - for himself, and that somewhere there is the spotless kitchen. 

Will hovers around the armchair, actively chasing Hannibal’s personality. It is a relief to put effort into thinking like somebody else, instead of fighting the waves of feelings that crash over him. Still, Will can not help but notice that the room is built to accommodate two or more people. He fights hard against the loneliness of occupying this space alone. He does not want to think of the cause.

A row of books is more accessible than the others, if only for the way in which the light falls on them and highlight the titles. Will stands up and walks closer, turning his head to read the golden letters on the red heavy leather.  _ S _ _ poon River Anthology. _

Will frowns, trying to remember his literature lessons. How can a short collection of poems fill nine tomes?

Will says, “Not so clever after all. Pick a longer morbid poem next time,” before realizing his hallucination is gone and he is speaking to himself. 

There is some space left between the books, as if a volume is missing.  Will picks up the phone and texts Jack. 

* * *

The officer who enters the physical room in Diaji reminds Will of why he hates meeting new people. His eyes widen as soon as he sees Will, then he says with a sly smile, “Hello baby. What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a crime scene?” He turns around, “Where’s the agent?”

Will blinks in disbelief and glances to his right, ready to share his annoyance with Hannibal.

Who of course is not there. And never was. 

Will’s first impulse is to go along with what the agent thinks; it is incredible what he can get away with when people underestimates him. But Hannibal’s remark about his ‘penchant for manipulation’ comes to his mind. He changes approach.

He narrows his eyes. “Maybe if you bothered to check the holotransmitter record, or just look at the file in my hands,” Will points to it theatrically, “you would know  _ I  _ am the agent. Now, if you could regain the use of your eyes, we may proceed with the investigation,” Will reads the name on the badge the Diajer is wearing, “or, agent Holligan, I can inform your superior of your sight issues.”

The Diajer has frozen in place. “I… I apologize for my disrespect, sir.”

Will closes his eyes, satisfied. He has acted as a normal agent would have done. He says, “Pick up that volume and show me.” He points to the last one. 

The book opens on a drawing of a dismembered Diajer, complete with a date and a name. The image is almost as accurate as a photo. The agent winces, to Will’s brief delight.

“Show me the other pages.”

More drawings, often alternated with brief handwritten paragraphs, cover the rest of the book. Will searches for the Orioner painter as the agent turns the pages… Yes, there it is. Will’s hums in satisfaction before the horror makes him wince. 

The painter is just sketched; position of the body and clothes are different from the crime scene. Hannibal’s projects, then, left behind. The date matches the actual day of the murder. 

Will asks the agent to turn to the last page. 

A female Diajer with golden locks stares back at Will from the book. She lies in a pool of blood, a single apple over her clasped hands. A note says, ‘Bedelia Du Murier’.

Will’s heart beats faster as he sees the date. That same day.

Without another word to the officer, he logs off the hologram. 

* * *

“Bedelia’s the psychiatrist who examined Lecter when he required his license. She lives on Freji, close to Earth.”

When Will comes back at headquarters as a hologram, Jack in person gives him the information, since every other agents is busy.

“Which explains why Han… Lecter is planning to murder her.” Will reasons aloud. “She may know something personal, maybe even information about their future movements.”

“We alerted the planet and three guards are currently stationed at her house. Her neighbour said he has seen a young Earthian girl walking along the street.”

An officer walks into the study and, oblivious to Jack’s glare, says, “That’s her. I checked the logs. There are three Earthians on that planet, two males and a forty year old female.”

Will sags, releasing the tension in his shoulders, “Keep an eye on the other houses of the zone, they may have broken into an empty one to hide. They know how to pick a lock.”

He fears he is babbling, but he is dizzy from the recent revelations. They are on Freji, so distant from Turo... 

He focuses when Jack says, “You may be useful at headquarters.”

The automatic refusal dies on the tip of his tongue. Will can actually deal with headquarters and their whirlwind of emotions, at least until the effect of the DX001 dies out. 

He swallows. “Fine.”

Jack narrows his eyes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I’ll send an agent to pick you up.”

Will closes the communication and slumps on the bed, only to sprint back up. His room is hollow, it makes him uneasy, and it definitely should not feel like that. 

He massages his temples out of habit, even if the DX001 took away his usual headache. He is tempted to call Jack back and say he has changed his mind, but witnessing the capture of Hannibal may be therapeutic and convince his brain to delete Hannibal’s personality. 

“I’d enjoy the silence again,” he says to the empty room. It comes out flat instead of victorious. 

* * *

Agent Dott is once again at his door. He keeps it professional, but looks at Will with utter admiration. Will finally realizes how important it was to solve this particular case. 

He looks away, pretending to be alone, glad that he does not need to fight against waves and waves of praises. With cautious optimism, he considers that if the case is so important, the medical commission will be lenient on him. 

They get into the lift and in few minutes they reach headquarters. 

His companion points him in the direction of an empty room, where a stack of physical copies of Hannibal’s books lie. The light is white and uniform, the chair looks comfortable, and there is a terminal at a corner of the table, which means Will can avoid direct conversation and still immediately inform the agents of any new discovery he makes. All in all, much better than Will expected.

He settles to work, while the sun goes down behind the large window.

* * *

Will's ears rings in time with the buzz of his terminal. He lost his conception of time, engrossed in the notebooks. The discovery of the complete list of Hannibal’s victims came with connections, patterns, motives.... All the answers he was looking for are written in there, inked in pretentious terrestrial calligraphy.

_ “Bedelia enquired about my family in today’s session. I sated her curiosity and minimized the events, but she is perceptive and may have understood more. I draw her as Eve, who tasted the apple of knowledge and suffered from it. I may realize this project… she is dangerous.” _

As Will turns page after page, he is distantly aware that those sketches are good enough to be displayed in an art gallery. A part of him is disappointed that they would go to the government, filed as proofs of Hannibal’s murders. 

The content of the notebooks fills the gap between Will’s mental projection and the actual Dr Hannibal Lecter, and in some places the accuracy of his reconstruction is uncanny. 

Except for one thing. In Orion he has seen Hannibal leaving a message for him with the painter's blood, promising a father to Abigail. But it is clear that Hannibal is looking for Bedelia. 

It must have been his imagination playing tricks on him, considering it was in that occasion that Will had gotten lost. Thinking about it, Hannibal has rambled about what a great father Will would be only in his mind. Will has conjured from nowhere an accurate delusion shaped as Hannibal who has confirmed his own theories again and again. He does not want to think about what the content of these daydreams says about himself.

Will is glad he did not reveal his suspicions to anybody. He needs to close the case as soon as possible, and to take some time to rein his mind back in. And to wipe out the latent sense of delusion at the discovery he is not, in fact, being seeked out by a serial killer. 

While he works, wary to waste his time on the drug by sleeping, the terminal beeps with updates and questions from the officers chasing Hannibal and Abigail. Will sends answers to each one, soaking in the satisfaction that at least his hallucination has been accurate enough that he can help with the profiles. 

By morning, the papers are settled into an organised pile, a report is filed, and Hannibal and Abigail have been cornered in an abandoned warehouse. Will switches off both the terminal and his phone. 

He walks to the dome where Jack works to submit his report.

The room is empty, except for Jack, who wears the same clothes as the previous day and nurses an energy drink. He is typing something in one of his terminals.

"Will. They’re as good as captured and there’s nothing more we can do from here. I'm about to go home. What do you have? "

Will slumps into a chair, suddenly exhausted. "As we suspected, Bedelia is in possession of personal information on Hannibal. He doesn’t want them to become public and has planned her murder for a long time. In addition, we have all the details of his previous victims." 

Jack nods. "Good job. It’s more than enough to imprison him for the rest of his life. As for Abigail, it'll be taken to our lab for examination."

Will bites his lips, not correcting 'it' to 'her' like he wants to. He sees movement in the corner of his vision. He checks his clock; the drug should stop working soon - another half an hour, maybe, if he is lucky. 

Jack takes his silence as exhaustion. "Go home, Will, get some rest. I'll have an officer accompany you."

"Thank you." A beat. "Nobody tried to talk to me in person. I know it was your order." 

Jack nods in acknowledgement.

Will rises and walks to the door. Before he could reach it, Jack says, "We wouldn't have caught him without your help."

The question hangs unspoken between them.

Will would have usually shrugged it off, but he is tired, Jack is tired, and they were friends, once. Jack deserves a bit of honesty.  

"I took the DX001, Jack." 

Alarm and disappointment flashes across Jack’s face. Maybe even guilt, but without his gift he can not be sure.

"I understand."

Will drops eye contact and heads out. 

Hopefully a few days in solitude will push Hannibal out of his mind.

* * *

Will falls asleep while he is escorted home with the lift. 

_ He is on a beach with Abigail and Hannibal, staring at the sunset. Hannibal keeps a hand on his shoulder, sometimes leaning in to kiss his cheek, unable to resist. Abigail sings, absently, with a smile.  _

_ They sit on a golden ribbon of sand, as the sun paints the ocean and the sky red. Warm as love, red as a bloody beating heart. _

* * *

Will wakes up, startled, when the lift stops at his home. He nods goodbye to the officer and mechanically walks to his door, opens it, goes upstairs. 

Hannibal stands in his room, in his usual Earthian suit, between him and the bed.

Will sighs. “Never let it be said you’re not precisely on time. Cannibal, murderer, probably psychopathic, but god forbid the police accuses you of being  _ late _ .”

Hannibal’s lips twitch. “Hello, Will. I’m glad my efforts meet your approval.” 

A wave of amusement stronger than usual reaches Will. Apparently he needs to get used to it again after the drug suppression.

Will goes to the window, where the main sun is rising, and closes the curtains. He turns, “I wouldn’t exactly call it approval, but I can’t help but admire your persistence in being an absolute pain in the...”

Will freezes on the spot. Hannibal is not shining. Will briefly closes his eyes. No halo behind his eyelids. 

He calculates the time required to go from Freji to Turo, because surely he couldn’t have evaded the police and run here, unless…

Hannibal steps towards him. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I’d appreciate it if you called me Hannibal.”

Unless he never was on Freji. Will curses himself for not thinking about that possibility. They saw Abigail, not Hannibal. And Turo’s security was looking for two people, not one. 

Shaking Hannibal’s hand on autopilot, Will mutters, “I’d appreciate you getting the fuck out my house. That happening anytime soon?”

If the warm consistency of his hand is not enough to prove he is the actual Hannibal fucking Lecter, waves of serenity are radiating from Hannibal in a magnitude not appropriate for a normal person, let alone a mental projection.

“I’d apologize for the ambush, but I wouldn’t be sincere and I’d like our relationship to start with honesty. I want to talk to you.”

Will fights against Hannibal’s calmness, and almost grabs the lapels of his agitation. Something is wrong, he can not close his mind as usual. Last time the drug did not have that side-effect on him.

He feels like he should be much more worried when he answers, “Ok, we can start with your travel arrangements. You’re not at Freji getting arrested, clearly. Why did you abandon Abigail to her fate?”

Hannibal sits on his desk and gestures for Will to sit beside him. Will steps towards him, stopping just beyond arm's reach, wondering how many chances he has to contact Jack. Not many, the emergency is technically finished and he has probably lost his privileged line.

That, and his phone is switched off. 

“I didn’t. I wanted her to kill Dr. Du Maurier, then to turn herself in. Even with your interference, she will be taken here, close to you, where I wanted her to be. Nevertheless I’m impressed that you predicted her actions. You found my notes, I presume?”

Hannibal’s words are laced with… affection. Why affection? Hannibal can not genuinely feel  _ that _ . 

Oh.

Oh no. 

Will’s voice sounds foreign in his ears, unaffected while his mind is overturned by the revelation. “It’s not exactly as if you hid them. They were in plain sight.”

There is a hysterical laughter somewhere, threatening to break free. Hannibal is his  _ special person _ . 

Of course he has always been so strong, Will’s mind is naturally attuned to him. They are supposed to understand each other perfectly.

Hannibal extends a hand, absently, touching Will’s hair just right. Does he know?

“Yes, between more than one thousand other volumes. You found them because you knew they were there.”

Will takes a centering breath and stares into Hannibal’s eyes. Admiring, calculating. Trying to rationally persuade him. 

Hannibal does not know, at least not on a conscious level. 

Will says, “Yeah, sure. By the way, your plan sucks. Abigail’s now stuck inside a lab for the rest of her life.” He winces when it comes out disappointed instead of sarcastic. 

Hannibal’s hand moves to Will’s cheek, soothing the prickling of his skin; Will can not help but lean into the touch. He thinks quickly. Hannibal would know if he lied. He would just kidnap Will and escape. 

Hannibal says, “But you’ll help her, dear Will, won’t you?” He radiates surety, not expecting any resistance from Will.

Something which resembles a strategy takes shape in Will’s mind as he lets himself imagine it. The three of them, together. Hannibal and he in love - disgustingly so, if the stories were true - and Abigail free. It is a happy future. He would not honestly care about the murders. Finally, Will admits to himself that Hannibal was right about his dark instincts. 

What did he say, exactly, about his penchant for manipulation?

After a beat, Will smiles, letting himself be held in Hannibal’s arms, “Of course.” 

“Good boy.” Hannibal tucks a lock of hair behind Will’s ear, instinctively moving to embrace him. “She needs a dad to teach her what feelings are, doesn’t she?”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Will sees a book. Casually laying over Will’s desk, it is filled with drawings of Will, Abigail and Hannibal. Together, on a beach. 

Will almost chokes, a sob caught on the back of his throat. Why can’t they…?

He leans against Hannibal’s shoulder to mask his expression. “She does.” He moves one of his hand to his pocket, then hesitates. He grasps at the scattered threads of his thoughts. “Why me?”

Will’s hand closes against cold metal, as Hannibal’s hands warm his face. Will expects a kiss, as in his dream. “Who else could it be? I know you can understand anybody. Your researches on The Ripper are a marvel.”

_ Pity understanding doesn’t equal agreement _ , Will thinks. He closes his eyes, enjoying the embrace. Hannibal is caressing his shoulders exactly where he needs it. “As you can understand me?”

“Yes, darling. We’ll be the perfect family, together.”

Will stares right at Hannibal, memorizing his face. His eyes are softer than he has ever imagined, radiating affection and longing. For understanding. For companionship. It feels exactly as Will has felt since he can remember. 

Will chooses.

DING.

The bell tolls against Hannibal. Will spins away, then uses the momentum to crush his improvised weapon again on Hannibal’s face, hard.

Hannibal’s surprise as he falls down is almost comical. Will is quite sure that the last shred before Hannibal loses consciousness is admiration.

He clutches his bell like a lifeline, switches his phone on and calls Jack.


	5. Epilogue

Seven days later, Hannibal is still pouting on his bed.

“I really don't understand why my mental projection of a serial killer is behaving as a teenager.” Will snaps to nobody in particular.

“Maybe your conscience is trying to tell you something, darling.”

The room is full of light. After experiencing the real deal, Will is sure he is not going to mix them up.

“And what would that be? My buried attraction for you? Because I’ve buried it  _ in deep _ . Last thing I want is to be stuck with you.”

Hannibal does not even look at him. Will wonders if his imagination is adding Hannibal’s insufferability to mess with him, or if Hannibal under his refined clothes is really such a drama queen. “I beg to differ. You were unsure to the end. And you chose your wobbly morality over a happy future with  _ me _ .”

Will snorts. Such a god complex. “Yes, well, sorry if I didn’t want to kill people indiscriminately.”

Hannibal does a vague gesture with his hand. “However, that’s not the point. You have another loose thread to see to his end.”

“I filed a report, you and Abigail are in prison, the Orioner you two used as a foil in Freji is safely home, no more murders are foreseen for the near future. I’m on vacation.” He still has to get another dose of DX001, but since the drug helped him to resist to Hannibal, the medical commission went easy on him and assigned him the fortnight of vacation he wanted.

“Precisely. Abigail’s in prison.” Hannibal looks at Will, who feels the expectation in his tone of voice.

Will has read Abigail’s file. She is taking heavy medications to try and see if she can refrain from eating flesh. Will has felt sympathy for her, despite his resolution not to get further involved. 

“I know you’re dreaming of her, Will. And they aren’t nightmares.”

“What should I do, then? Follow your genius plan and adopt her as a daughter?” Will taps his feet on the floor, realizing that it does not sound as terrible an idea as he knows it to be.

“Maybe we can compromise.” Hannibal finally straightens up and walks towards Will. “What do you want?”

“You out of my bedroom. This is getting awkward.”

Hannibal inclined his head, as he did before stroking his cheek. Will feels the phantom of the touch. “Then I’ll go if you’ll file for custody of Abigail.”

“You're a hallucination, you shouldn't be able to decide when you go.”

Hannibal smiles. “I think we both agree our relationship isn't conventional. Special person and all. Other issues?”

“Technically she’s an object. And a famous one. I doubt the scientists will give her to me.” Will tries to lean on Hannibal, but he almost loses his footing when his hand passes right through Hannibal’s chest. He grimaces at his loss of control. He really needs to toss him out of his mind. It is not like he regrets his decision, but he has some annoying moments of sadness over it.

“No, but they'll allow you to have conversations. I'm sure they'll love the occasion to study your interactions with her, and when they have finished with their lab tests they may allow a living arrangement to deepen their studies. And you're also a prize for any scientist, even if you prefer to forget about it.”

Will already knew that, but now he is forced to admit that the idea appeals to him. And he knows Hannibal - the real one, not the hallucination, even if the two are starting to blur - honestly thinks it'll help Abigail.

“Fine. I'll do it.” Something uncoils in his guts, and he can not help but smile at Hannibal. He wonders if he will be allowed to style Abigail’s hair.

Hannibal is fading away. “Our pact is sealed; I should go. Goodbye, my darling.”

At last alone in his room, Will whispers to the air, “Goodbye, Hannibal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those were... so many words! Thank you for reading to the very end ♥


	6. Extra: The Illustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's Krey, these are the illustrations I did. I enjoy this project so much, Fhimechan is such a patient, wonderful partner who provided me great support and ideas.
> 
> Below you'll find more info about our aliens and robot :"""9

All these images are not full size, max size is 1280, which is too big to view on mobile AO3 already. Visit Tumblr (End Notes) for full size and better quality (where I post the concept preparations as well) 

1/ TITLE PIECE:

Here we have the overall looks of the characters and the objects relevant to them: teddy bear for Abigail, the bell for Will and Turo planet.

 

2/ CHARACTER PROFILES:

 

3/ CONCEPT OF WILL'S PJS:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit where I post art on [TUMBLR](https://krey9art.tumblr.com/) or [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/KeithQuJones)


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